At long last, the sound of marching feet faded into the distance, and everyone let out a sigh.
But the sounds of the room were still amplified. The heavy breathing still resounded from the walls, even louder than before.
They’re coming for me, Fallion knew, the winged hunters. They’re coming, and they’re getting closer. Any minute now, and they will be here.
He almost wanted to risk a little light. He had used his flameweaving powers during the heat of the day to store energy, and right now it was leaking from every pore. To those nearby, his skin would feel fevered.
But he dared not risk it.
So he waited for a long half hour. The sounds of their breathing, of hearts pounding, grew ever louder.
Something whisked past the window, blocking out the starlight for an instant-an owl perhaps. Fallion hoped that it was only an owl.
A moment later, the sounds faded. The room went quiet. Fallion could still hear the blood pounding in his ears, but it was greatly diminished.
Rhianna gave a relieved sigh, and Jaz whispered, “They’ve left.”
Suddenly the massive stone roof went blasting into the air, as if tossed aside by the hand of an angry god. The huge slab walls shattered, seemingly hit by battering rams, and Fallion found himself sitting exposed upon a platform.
Overhead, blotting out the stars, were three beings, floating in the air. Their great wings spread out wide as they hung in a soft breeze, every so often flapping almost silently.
All three of them were clothed in red.
Fallion had never sensed such evil, not in Asgaroth, not in Shadoath. It was palpable, like a stink.
“We’re found!” Jaz shouted, drawing his bow. Rhianna shrieked and leapt to her feet, battle staff at the ready.
Talon cried out, “Ah, the Knights Eternal. We’re undone!”
Fallion knew of only one way to fight a locus. He did something now that he had tried only once before.
He blazed, sending out a bright light, as blinding as the sun. Light bled from every pore, spreading from him like a beacon. One of the Knights Eternal threw up a hand to shield his eyes. At that moment, Jaz loosed an arrow.
It blurred like a bolt, striking one of the creatures in the chest.
The Knight Eternal let out a resounding wail, a freakish cry as if from a wounded wolf, and then crumpled, bits of decayed flesh raining down, even as its wings collapsed like a sheet in the wind.
Vulgnash whirled, looked to where Kryssidia had been. The Knight’s flesh had come unbound.
No weapon forged by mere mortals should have been able to do that. Only weapons enchanted by a powerful undine could do that, and Vulgnash had rid the earth of such wizards long ago.
The light intensified, striking Vulgnash like the sun, lashing at him. The human wizard was powerful, more powerful than any that he had met in five thousand years.
I know this one, Vulgnash realized. The Torch-bearer walks the earth again.
This disconcerted him, but did not strike fear into Vulgnash’s heart.
The Torch-bearer had great powers. But he had greater weaknesses.
Fallion blazed like the sun, wielding the light as if it were a sword. He could see the loci now in his enemies, as he used the light to pierce their spirits. The spirits of his enemies were like balls of soft blue light, with tentacles of energy worming through them.
In a healthy person, the light would be brilliant, effervescent.
But Fallion spotted black parasites feeding upon the husks of the creature’s shriveled souls-dark forms that looked like enormous water fleas. They were the loci.
“By the Powers,” Fallion commanded, “depart!”
He lashed out, sending his brilliance to burn the loci, hoping to sear them into oblivion.
And as quickly as he did, the light faded.
One of the Knights Eternal stretched out a hand, and all of the light Fallion radiated snuffed out.
Fallion sent a surge of energy, hoping to break the spell, and a fiery rope of heat went twisting into the enemy’s palm.
The Knight Eternal hurled the fireball back toward Talon, and it took all of Fallion’s skill to shunt it aside before it washed over her.
“Flameweavers!” Rhianna shouted.
I’m defenseless, Fallion thought.
Jaz tried to nock another arrow, but as he did, one of the creatures dove and pointed a finger.
A blast of icy wind washed over the group, hit them like a blow. Jaz and the others cried out and went sprawling across the floor. The wind was colder than the tomb, and it sucked the air from Fallion’s lungs.
Fallion fell backward, found himself dangling over the edge of the wall. Suddenly he was cold, so deadly cold that he could not feel his hands, his feet, his face. His heart beat frantically, but Fallion could not move. His muscles would not respond.
He tried to lift his hand, to cry out or run, but every nerve seemed frozen.
I’m dead, he thought. I’m dead.
The enemy dropped from the sky, landing to the wooden floor with a thud, and came striding over to him.
Fallion could not so much as blink.
A tall figure all in robes and a cowl loomed above him, revealed by the light of a crescent moon. The evil of its presence smote Fallion, washed over him like filth; Fallion tried to crawl away.
The wyrmling peered at him, then reached down and stroked Fallion’s cheek. Like a lover, Fallion thought. He stroked me like a lover. But, No, he realized. He strokes me like a hunter who admires a prized kill.
The cowled figure spoke in a strange tongue, yet there must have been a spell upon Fallion, for he also heard words ringing in his mind.
“Welcome, little wizard,” the wyrmling said, “to my world.”
SMALL FOLK
As a young man, I was taught that to be a warrior is the epitome of virtue, and that warriors should be held in greater esteem than other men. We are the protectors, after all.
But what does a warrior create? Should not the farmer pruning his orchard be granted equal esteem? Should not the mother nursing her child be deserving of greater praise?
All of my life, I have felt like a fraud. I have been humbled by humble men.
Never was it more so than when I first saw the small folk of the shadow world.
Alun came staggering into camp on rubbery legs that night, well after dark. He was supposed to have run a hundred miles, but of course his energy gave out.
The other warriors drove him anyway, hurling curses and encouragement at him in equal measure. “You’re a warrior now!” “Move those damned spindly legs!” “Does a wolf tire when it runs to battle?”
They laughed, and the tone seemed kindly enough.
But they were going to kill him, Alun knew.
He realized it as soon as his legs gave out, and he went sprawling in the dirt.
Drewish had urged him on with a swift kick to the ribs and a derisive laugh, and had rushed on. But Connor had only halted long enough to yell, “Get off your lazy ass. We’ll have no laggards.”
Alun had fumbled about, gasping for air, and Connor just rolled his eyes. At last, he picked Alun up by the
